Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  “Of course. We had a visa from America. But people in South Korea travel abroad all the time. We do not have to have permission to travel. Anyone can do it.”

  Now he was hooked. “How can people afford it?”

  “The South Korean economy is forty times larger than North Korea’s.”

  He looked like he didn’t believe me.

  “Really,” I said. “The average South Korean household owns a house or apartment and a couple of cars and sends their kids to college.”

  “No way!” he said, shocked.

  “I’m telling you the truth. My family was just a middle-class family, but we had all those things. The same is true in America. We were not rich, but I went both to college and graduate school. I have a master’s degree. I owned my own home before I moved to China. My son is in college now.”

  I could see the wheels spinning in the guard’s head. That was my goal with this conversation. Of course I wanted to find a way to tell him about God, but we were a long way from that conversation. All his life he had been taught that juche, self-reliance, was all he needed, along with faith in the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung. On top of that, everything he had heard in the news, in music, and in movies told him that North Korea is the envy of the world. Before he would ever be open to hearing about the one true God, he needed to learn the truth about his own god. I hoped that by telling him about the world beyond his closed society, he might start to question the only “truth” he’d ever known and be open to more of what I had to say.

  Eventually we made it back to my room. “Would you like to come in for some tea?” I asked.

  The guard looked around. I could tell he wanted to say yes. Clearly he wanted to talk more about the world beyond North Korea. I had piqued his curiosity.

  Instead, he said, “No, not now. Perhaps another time.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would like that.”

  Doors were starting to open. God, give me wisdom and patience, I prayed.

  The next day, the guard seemed more relaxed with me. As we walked along I asked, “Are you married?”

  “Yes,” the guard said.

  “What does your wife do?”

  “She works in a store.”

  “My wife had a traditional Korean dress shop in China,” I said. “Do you have any children?”

  “A son. He’s in junior high. I don’t get to see him very much when I’m working. I hate that, because he gets sick a lot,” the guard said.

  I could tell we had turned a corner. The guard talked with me as if I were a friend, not a prisoner on whom he had to keep an eye.

  “What kind of sickness?” I asked.

  “Colds, mainly.”

  “Why don’t you try giving him extra doses of vitamin C? I take a couple of thousand milligrams a day back home, and I haven’t had a cold in years.”

  The guard perked up. “I think I will try that. Thanks.”

  About a week later the same guard was on duty. During our walk he said to me, “My wife bought the vitamin C like you suggested, but my son couldn’t get it down.”

  Now, this might not seem like a substantial conversation, but believe me—it was huge. My relationship with the guard had moved to the point where he trusted me enough to take my advice.

  “That can be tough. Did you have him chew the tablets up or swallow them whole?” I asked.

  “Chew them.”

  “Have him swallow them with water. That’s the only way to get them down,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll try that when I get home,” he said.

  I had numerous other conversations like this with other guards throughout my time in the hospital. Some even accepted my invitation to have tea with me. Later on, I even gave Chinese lessons to a few of them and discussed the Chinese movies that played on TV. I still respected them as guards, and they still called me 103, at least when other people were around, but I could tell God was at work.

  A few of the guards started asking me questions about God and why I believed. These were not in-depth discussions—not yet—but they were curious because I was so different from anyone they had ever met. I could tell God was answering my prayers. He was using me.

  EIGHTEEN

  A VISIT FROM HOME

  Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 1:3–4

  A WEEK AND a half after I had come to peace with staying in North Korea for the foreseeable future, Mr. Lee came to see me.

  “Your mother is here in Pyongyang. She will be here to see you soon,” he said.

  “She’s here?” I asked, stunned. The Swedish ambassador had told me in his August visit that my mother was trying to arrange a trip to see me, but I never thought it would actually happen.

  “Yes. Our government allowed her to come over to visit you as a good-faith gesture. You see, we are not the terrible people the Western media makes us out to be,” he said.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

  “I thought about it,” Mr. Lee said, “but I knew if I said anything ahead of time, you would not be able to sleep or rest until she got here. I hope that is okay with you. She will be here in a few minutes.”

  I sat on my bed and waited and waited and waited. A few minutes turned into the longest forty minutes of my life. Then I heard the guard on the other side of the door put the key in the lock and turn it.

  The door opened. Standing in front of me was my mother.

  I jumped up and rushed over to her. As I wrapped my arms around her, we both broke into tears. She grabbed me as though she never wanted to let me go.

  When we finally separated, I noticed a film crew in the room, along with several DPRK officials. Choson Sinbo was there again, recording everything. All I wanted to do was talk to my mother and find out how my family was doing, but the North Korean officials had other ideas. We had to do an interview first.

  “Mrs. Bae,” the reporter asked, “did you see the report we did on your son when he was in the labor camp?”

  “Yes,” my mother said very matter-of-factly. Like me, she did not want to do an interview.

  “Well, what did you think of it? How did you feel about the report?” the woman reporter asked with a big smile.

  “I didn’t like it at all. It was very painful to watch the video clips and see the condition he was in,” my mother said. “It made my heart ache.” Her tone of voice conveyed even more displeasure, not only with what had happened before, but also with being subjected to these questions now.

  “How do you feel seeing your son now?” the reporter asked, oblivious to my mother’s discomfort.

  “Obviously, I am glad to see my son. However, my hope and desire was to see him back home rather than here. Now, if it is all the same to you, I don’t want to do an interview. I am here to see my son.”

  The reporter looked at the cameraman and then over to Mr. Lee and the other officials in the room. “That’s fine. I think we are done here anyway,” the reporter said.

  The Choson Sinbo team left. The North Korean minder assigned to my mother asked her, “Why did you say those things to the reporter? Don’t you know they are trying to help get your son released? Showing disrespect to them is not good, because whatever they report will have a big impact on your son.”

  “Her questions brought back sad memories, and I didn’t want to do an interview anyway,” my mom said.

  I pulled Mr. Lee over to the side. “Please,” I said, “give us as much time as you can. She came all the way from America to see me.�
��

  My mother and I had two hours alone together that day and each of the next two days as well. Even though we were alone, I knew our conversations were being listened to from the other room. There’s no such thing as total privacy there.

  My mother peppered me with all the mom questions: “Are you okay? How are you holding up emotionally? How is your health? How is your back?” I told her I was fine and that I was being treated well. The hospital staff had brought some tea bags and coffee earlier, so I made some tea for my mom. The hospital hadn’t just given me these things out of the goodness of their hearts. The day before my mother arrived, I was told that the hospital was billing €600 a day for my time there. If I was going to have to pay that much, I figured I might as well get as much as I could for my money. Over tea I told my mom I was worried about the bill.

  “It’s true that several past detainees were also required to settle their bills before leaving,” she said. “Some paid a few thousand, but there was one who paid as much as half a million dollars.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better. “How are we supposed to do that?” I asked.

  “Please do not worry about it. We’ll do a fundraising campaign, and the debt will be paid,” she said, trying to reassure me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should volunteer to go back to the labor camp right away.”

  This upset my mom. “No. Don’t say that. If you go back there, you will get worse.”

  I changed the subject. “How is Lydia holding up?” I asked. I knew our time apart had to be very hard for her. Her first husband had died suddenly from a stroke when he was in his early forties. After having one husband suddenly taken from her, I knew she had to be suffering from my being taken from her so quickly as well. We’d only been married four years when I was arrested.

  “She couldn’t get out of bed for the first three months,” my mother said. “But then she found the strength to get up, and she’s been taking care of everyone else since then. In fact, the original plan was for both of us to come to see you, but the State Department really discouraged that, because she’s not yet a US citizen. If something happened, they wouldn’t be able to help her.”

  As much as I wanted to see my wife, I was thankful she and my mom had changed their plans. I could not live with myself if something happened to Lydia while she was trying to come see me.

  The minder who was assigned to my mom then came in and told us that it was time for my mother to go. “Do not worry,” he said. “She is coming back tomorrow.”

  The next day my mother returned with a large bag. “I brought something for you,” she said. The next few minutes felt like Christmas morning. She pulled out a box of Hawaiian chocolates with macadamia nuts, some Kit Kat bars, beef jerky, mixed nuts, and protein bars. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had been craving each of these things in exactly the order in which she pulled them out of her bag, but I had never mentioned the cravings in any of my letters. I thought, Wow, Lord! You really have been listening to the desires of my heart! She had brought all these treats from the United States. She also went shopping for me in Pyongyang and bought me some noodle soup, soda, and other treats.

  In addition my mom gave me several bottles of vitamins, some prediabetes packets, and omega-3, along with some medications and a stack of new books. Two were travel books written by a famous South Korean author, Han Bi Ya. One of the books followed her through the Middle East and parts of Africa, while the other detailed her journeys from Alaska to South America. Those two books allowed me to escape my circumstances in North Korea. I felt like a character in her stories as I traveled with her. I must have read both books at least seven times over the next year.

  I think my mother and I talked nonstop for the two hours they gave us on the second day. We had so little time, especially considering how far she had traveled. During the second day she told me she had come over on a one-way ticket. “The round-trip ticket was too expensive,” she said.

  I nearly lost it. “How are you going to get home?” I asked.

  My mom wasn’t too worried about it. “Oh, I think I will take a train to Dandong, then fly home from there. That way I can see Lydia as well.”

  Wow! If I pulled something like that, you would go crazy, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I tried to talk her into doing some sightseeing while she was in Pyongyang—not that I cared about her seeing the sights. I wanted her to meet the people in the city.

  “I’m not here to see the sights. I am here to see you,” she said.

  Even so, she had a lot of extra time and ended up going to a couple of museums. The Swedish ambassador took her out for a steak dinner that night and also treated the government minder and translator from the Swedish embassy. I don’t think those two guys had ever had such a meal.

  When my mother arrived for her last visit, she brought some noodle soup from a famous restaurant called Okryugwan. Just as mothers do, she didn’t just bring enough for the two of us; she also treated the hospital staff and the guards who let her in and out of my room. That made a big impression on them. Rather than act upset and angry with them for what had happened to me, she treated them with kindness. Her actions tore down walls for me to talk to them after she left.

  During our last visit, my mom whispered to me that the person named Jane who had been sending me letters along with New York Times articles was actually Euna Lee. Euna felt compassion toward me because of her experience in North Korea. She had also started a “Letters for Kenneth” e-mail campaign. Knowing the restrictions the DPRK had on me, she edited all the letters from my supporters and sent them to my mom, who forwarded them to the State Department for me. Euna used an alias just in case the North Korean government recognized her name and refused to give her letters to me.

  I was so thankful for her heart and compassion for me. I had already written her a thank-you note without knowing who she really was. In the letter I told “Jane” that I would love to meet her and take her family out for a meal when I got home.

  My mother was supposed to be able to stay for only two hours, just as on the previous two days. When the second hour was up, I asked the government minder to please give us more time. He looked over at my mother’s pleading eyes and could not say no.

  An hour later the minder brought the nurse into the room and started dropping hints that time was up. The nurse couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words, so I said them for her.

  “Mom, we have to say good-bye.”

  “No, Kenneth, we need more time,” she said.

  I looked over at the nurse. “That’s all the time we have. I have to do physical therapy now.”

  “I will ask if I can come see you one more time before I get on the train for Dandong,” she said, hopeful.

  “You can ask, but they are not going to let you. I’m fine. I will be okay. If I am going to be in North Korea, this is probably the best place for me to be. Don’t worry about me. Just keep working on my release,” I said. She hesitated. “It’s okay, Mom. We will get through this, and then I will have a story to tell for the rest of my life.”

  My mother had no choice. She gave me a very long good-bye hug. As she was leaving, she looked back at me with an expression I will never forget. Her eyes told me she thought she was never going to see me again. The reality of my situation really hit her right then. Obviously she knew I had been arrested, charged, and convicted. But now, for the first time, she truly understood what it meant that I was a prisoner in North Korea. She had encouraged me to have the faith of Daniel’s friends; now she had to do the same.

  After my mother left, I did not feel depressed or lonely. Instead, I thanked God for her visit. I knew that finally my family would really know how I was doing. My mom could alleviate a lot of their worries.

  We didn’t need more worry. Worry wasn’t going to change my situation. Only G
od could do that.

  NINETEEN

  MORE DISAPPOINTMENT

  Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.

  —PHILIPPIANS 4:4–5

  MY ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY in custody came and went with little fanfare. I got up, read for a while, and then went for a walk through the halls with one of the guards. I got to see my only real friend, the dog, who always made me smile.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, the television came on. The one channel broadcasting that day showed the same propaganda that it showed every day. I tried to ignore it. I read my Bible for a while and then one of the travel books my mother had brought me. Even though I was still in Pyongyang, still a prisoner, the book let me escape to South America for a little while.

  The day was pretty much like every other day. When I went to bed that night, I prayed for strength to continue serving God faithfully as a missionary through all the unknown number of days that lay in front of me.

  A few days later, a slight man in his late thirties came to see me. “I am the new prosecutor assigned to your case, Mr. Bae. I will check on you every week to see if you need anything. I will also keep you abreast of what is going on with your case.” When he spoke, I saw his canine teeth protruded out like a vampire’s.

  “It is good to meet you,” I said. I wanted to start off on a good foot with this man. Thus far most of my experiences with the officials assigned to my case had been overwhelmingly negative. From Mr. Park in Rason, to the chief prosecutor and Mr. Min in Pyongyang, these men vacillated between being unsympathetic and outright hostile toward me. Only Mr. Lee seemed to care about me. Now it looked as if he had been replaced.

  “Thank you,” he said. “How are you doing today? Do you need anything?”

  “I am doing okay,” I said.

  “Good. Good. Now, as far as your case is concerned, nothing new is going on. Nor do I expect there ever will be.” He looked down at the papers in front of him. “It says here that you are forty-six. You and I will spend a lot of time together in the coming years, because you will be here until you are sixty, at least.” He did not announce this in a sinister way. Rather, he spoke very matter-of-factly.